


Learning

by chutzpaz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Internalized Homophobia, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chutzpaz/pseuds/chutzpaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has learned that to be a lady, she must marry and have children and do her female duty. Any deviation is disgusting, wrong, sinful. Liking women certainly is. This is what she has learned. It takes a while for someone to teach her otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning

**Author's Note:**

> from the kinkmeme prompt [(x)](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/22142.html?thread=14503550)

It took a long time for Sansa to learn.

*

"You'll make a man happy someday," Ned had told her. "You'll be a good wife." He had patted her on the back when she showed him her first piece of embroidery. It was good. Everyone said so. But she didn't know it was a wife thing.

"Why do I have to make a man happy? Why can't I have a wife?" she had asked petulantly. She couldn't have been more than nine at the time. She didn't know.

Ned had chuckled. "That's just not how it is, Sansa."

That was the first thing she learned.

*

The second was when she asked Septa Mordane.

"No!" the Septa had gasped in her shrill voice.

Sansa bit her lip. "A girl can't have a wife?"

"Of course not. Gods know it's the worst kind of abomination. The old gods _and_ the new." She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "A lady doesn't ask these questions, Sansa."

"Sorry," Sansa had said, looking back down to her embroidery.

"Childish curiosity. Excusable," the Septa said, waving her hand in dismissal. "But do make sure to be a lady next time."

*

"Whatcha starin' at?"

Sansa caught herself, snapping out of her trance.

"Nothing. Sorry."

"Well, 'twasn't nothin'. Is it these?" The serving girl who Sansa had been caught looking at grabbed her breasts, pushing them up to form cleavage barely obscured by her shirt.  Sansa blushed.

"I..." she murmured, dropping her voice. It was unladylike of her to stare, she knew. But the swell of her breasts— something about it captivated Sansa.

The girl laughed and Sansa blushed deeper. She had been caught and now the girl would tell and everyone would know Sansa for the abomination she was. Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but the girl interrupted.

"Don't worry, m'lady," the girl had said. "You'll get 'em soon enough. Then all the boys will start looking." She had turned away with a wink.

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

But she didn't want boys to look. She wanted to look at the girl.

That was the third thing she learned.

*

"They were _kissing_." Arya made a disgusted face.

"Who was?" Sansa asked politely.

"Joella," Arya said in a hushed tone. She scooted closer to Sansa. "And Lya."

Sansa gaped. "They're both girls! They were... kissing?"

"I know," Arya says. "Gross, right? _Kissing_. Disgusting." She pulled another face and gave an over-exaggerated shudder.

Disgusting. Sansa was disgusting.

That was the fourth thing she learned.

*

"...and so, I spend a month trying to bed her, and then I find out she likes cunt!"

Theon's story was met with raucous laughter. Sansa stood by the doorway, listening quietly.

 "Not like you could've bedded her anyways. She's Cerwyn's daughter."

"That was _her_? Theon, you arse, you thought you had a chance with Lady-Cerwyn-to-be?"

"Not really much of a lady, though, eh?"

There was more laughter and the clink of glasses. They were drinking, Sansa realized.

"Nah, she's not. Can't even mend a dress to save her life."

"How d'you expect her to like that needle of _yours_ if she won't touch one in the first place?"

More laughter. Sansa heard enough. She fled.

That was the last thing she needed to learn before she finally understood.

She had to be a lady.

 

* * *

 

Five years down the line and Sansa has made herself the best lady she can possibly be. She's polite. She's considerate. She's kind. And she definitely, definitely, definitely does not notice how beautiful Myrcella's eyes are, or how soft her skin looks, or how gracefully her body moves.

She will marry Joffrey. He's perfect. The prince. With a sword and a title. She will marry him and have his children and she will _not_ think about the slight shine of Myrcella's hair when she asks Sansa to braid it. She'll be Joffrey's lady wife and they'll live happily ever after.

Joffrey will be good for her. He's not sinful, or wrong, or an abomination. He'll make her clean.

But she doesn't feel clean.

*

When they arrive in King's Landing she's miserable. But Septa Mordane said that a lady always has a smile on her face. So Sansa smiles.

The tourney cheers her up, though. There's food and wine and flowers. Lords and ladies offer their congratulations to her father on his new position as Hand, and they offer her and Arya all kinds of sweets and presents. Arya tries to look unconcerned when someone offers them sugared almonds, but out of the corner of her eye Sansa sees her hand snaking over to the basket to grab a few. Sansa much prefers the lemon cakes.

She can learn to like it here.

The only person who engages her in real conversation is, to her surprise, Renly Baratheon. She's only up for a moment, to fetch some water, but has paused to watch what's happening in the tourney. It's an intermission. The men are at the sides having their squires re-fit their armor. Three girls clad only in wispy silk dance in the center. Sansa watches and imagines the feel of that silk in her hands. She is lost in her reverie when he speaks.

"Sure you wouldn't rather have wine?"

Sansa looks around before realizing he was talking to her. "Oh— me?"

He smiles. "Yes, you. Apologies for the interruption, my lady. Renly Baratheon."

"Oh! I— I knew that. I'm Sansa. Sansa Stark. My lord." She inwardly chastises herself for her gracelessness.

"I knew that, too." He chuckles.

Sansa blushes. "It's nice to meet you."

"You as well, my lady. Wine?" He holds a glass out to her and she hesitates. "Go on," he insists.

"Thank you." Sansa takes a tentative sip. It's rich and lush, different from the wines she's been allowed to taste at Winterfell. She takes another sip.

"So, are you liking it so far?" Renly asks.

"I like the taste. It's—"

Renly cuts her off with laugh. "Not the wine. King's Landing."

"Oh," Sansa says. "Of course. I... like it a lot. It's warmer here. And livelier."

"Yes," Renly muses. "It is much livelier. And I'm sure there are many young suitors for you to choose from." He winks.

Sansa turns absolutely crimson. "I'm to marry Joffrey," she says.

"Surely you can admire the men from afar, right?"

"I'm not interested in the men."

Renly raises an eyebrow.

"Other than Joffrey," Sansa hurriedly corrects herself. Renly looks increasingly amused.

"And the women?"

Sansa, mid-sip, nearly chokes on her drink. "I— of course not, I—"

"You sure?"

Sansa splutters. Renly laughs. "I'm only teasing." His laughter subsides and his face becomes more serious. "You're still young," he says. "You'll learn."

Sansa wants to ask what she'll learn, but he has already gone.

*

Sansa takes to walking in the garden each afternoon. She often passes Renly and they exchange conversation. It's polite and cordial, just like a lady's conversation should be, even though Sansa desperately wants to know what Renly meant. They don't often speak long enough for her to ask.

A couple of weeks later, she gets her chance. Or, rather, Renly gets his chance to talk to her. The morning is misty and promises rain soon to come. When Sansa finally steps out for her walk, there is a light drizzle that dusts the garden with raindrops and enshrouds it in a cloak of gray. It's nearly deserted, save a few birds and what Sansa thinks might be rabbits in the bushes.

Renly comes to her that day. She hardly sees him until he's right beside her.

"I heard Lady Swann isn't interested in men either," he says. Sansa hasn't even had a chance to greet him.

She bristles. "Lady Swann must not be a very good wife." Where did Renly's sudden bluntness come from? He has never been this way before.

"I've heard she beds other women."

Sansa stops, affronted, and turns away. "That's disgusting," she says. When she looks back at Renly he has a frown on his face.

"What?" Sansa asks.

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's a sin. In the eyes of the old gods and the new." Sansa says this, but it sounds like a recitation. It feels like a lie. It tastes like another person's words. She can even hear the inflections of Septa Mordane when she speaks.

"You really think that?" Renly is facing her now, eyes boring into hers. She looks away again, not able to answer when he's looking at her so intently.

"I only follow what the gods think," she says brusquely.

"Sansa," Renly says sharply.

She looks up at him. Perhaps she was too rude.

His voice grows softer, however. "My lady," he says. "Sometimes the gods are wrong."

Sansa gasps. "You can't say that!"

"Can't I? We're alone." He gestures to the empty garden. "What, are you going to tell the High Septon?"

"No, but— but it's true. The gods are right. It's just _wrong_." Her voice is low now. Harsh. Unladylike. There is venom in her words.

Renly takes her hands in his. "Sansa. I've watched you, you know. You don't look at the men when you stroll through the gardens. You don't gossip about who's the most handsome at dinner with your friends. You avoid conversation about your marriage to Joffrey." He speaks softly, calmly.

Sansa looks away. "What do you want from me?" she whispers.

"I just want to know, Sansa. Do you like women?"

There is venom in her words and in her heart, but there are tears in her eyes.

"You don't under _stand_ ," she whispers. "I can't." She chokes back a sob, shuts her eyes. "It's disgusting."

"Am I disgusting?"

Her eyes fly open at that.

"You— you"

"I like men," he says casually, and Sansa's world crumbles.

Lady Cerwyn was confused. Lady Swann is a degenerate. But this is _Renly Baratheon_. Smart, charming, handsome Renly Baratheon. He could never.

"Am I disgusting?" he asks again.

Sansa shakes her head.

Renly smiles, a thin and tight-lipped smile, nothing like his usual beaming grins. It's a bittersweet smile.

"You'll learn, Sansa, that you aren't either." He kisses her forehead and walks away, disappearing into the fog and leaving Sansa to stand there among the bushes, stunned and conflicted and in awe.

*

Perhaps she isn't disgusting, Sansa reasons. But she still, for the sake of herself and her family, must be a lady. She must do her duty. She must be honorable, and proper, and noble. So she does her duty, and she tells the queen that her father is committing treason.

"Good girl," Cersei says. "You've done very good to tell me."

Sansa revels in the praise. It is only later that she realizes what a grave mistake she's made, and by then, she knows there are plenty of other ways to be disgusting. 

*

Renly comes to her in the dead of night.

She has been weeping over Ned. Her eyes are red and swollen and she rubs them to make sure she's not hallucinating.

"I thought you left," she whispers.

"I came back."

"Why?"

"Loras Tyrell," he says. "Come, now. We don't have time to talk."

She comes. They walk briskly through the halls of the Red Keep until they come to another door.

"Renly," Loras breathes when he sees who it is.

"Loras," Renly says.

When they finally board the ship the two kiss more sincerely and passionately than Sansa has ever seen in her life. And it's not disgusting at all.

The way she squeals over the display and laughs along with them when their lips finally part is not ladylike in the least. But she doesn't need to be ladylike anymore.

She's learned better.


End file.
